Page 21 of The Wild Charge

“Hey,” she greeted, her smile genuine, her gaze warm, as she climbed out of the Rhino – apparently just having come down from the house – and joined him in the threshold. He’d been standing there, fiddling with the straps of his backpack, hesitant again. An idiot again.

It was a day for it, apparently.

“George brushed Hansel down earlier, so he should be ready to tack. Let me grab the chaps, and–”

“Actually,” he interrupted, and gave his backpack straps another tug. “I’ve got breeches. And boots.”

Her face lit up. “No way! Okay, awesome. And you obviously didn’t want to wear them on the bike.” She grinned, and chuckled. “Don’t blame you. You can go change in my office, if you want. Or.” She snapped her fingers as an idea occurred. “You can go upstairs. The apartment’s empty these days, now that Shane and Becca got their own place.”

“Apartment?” It sounded better than getting walked in on in the office, while he struggled to pull on skintight riding pants.

She took his question as interest. “Yeah, I’ll show you.” He’d noted the narrow wooden staircase just inside the front doors of the barn before, but never asked about it; she led him up it, now. It hit a small landing, turned left, and ended in a door which she opened and pushed wide for him.

It was surprisingly spacious inside, a loft space with can lights overhead, its ceiling angled – because it was a barn, after all. There was a kitchenette, a small living area with an old brown leather sofa, a bed tucked beneath the eave, its mattress stripped bare. A corrugated metal wall and door at the far end must have concealed the bathroom. It smelled faintly dusty, like it had been sitting empty for a while, and also like hay, and horses, and pine shavings: good, innocent equine smells that were immediately soothing. Skylights allowed in slanted, golden afternoon light that fell in panels on worn-soft floorboards.

He walked forward without conscious thought, and peered through one of the heavily angled skylights; saw pasture, and a few horses out grazing, tails swishing, and up the hill the stone house, lights already burning in the windows.

“I lived here,” Emmie said, and he heard the change in her voice. Turned his head to look back at her standing on the threshold. He noted that she tended to stand with her hands on her hips – already small, she clearly didn’t feel the need to shrink down and make herself smaller. But she had her arms folded across her middle, now, as she scanned the board walls. “For a long time. Before the club bought the place and everything went…” She lifted a hand and made a circling motion that he took to meancrazy. “But…”

She had memories here, mostly fond, he thought, but some not.

She shook her head, and refocused, her gaze snapping to meet his. “You know: if you ever want to move out of the clubhouse, you could always live here.” Said with a smile that seemed inexplicably hopeful.

He frowned. “You’dwantme to live here?”

She shrugged. “It’s just an offer. The space is empty, and I’m not going to let a stranger move in.”

He thought about pointing out that he was more or less a stranger to her.

“Just think about it,” she said, lightly, and turned around. “I’ll let you get changed.” She closed the door on him, and he heard her boot soles clip back down the wooden stairs.

He stood a moment, having another look around. It was easy to imagine Emmie here; this place seemed far more suited to her than the big house up on the hill. He’d only been inside it once, but its kitchen had struck him as very antiseptic. And Walsh, in his jeans and cut, had looked out of place in the mahogany and brass office, behind its massive desk. They weren’t glamorous, the Walshes.

He tried to imagine himself here, and was a little shocked by the ease with which the portrait sprang to mind. Covers on the bed, and a TV in the corner; a mirror and some weights over against that wall, a built-in cabinet for his guns and knives. No shouting or music or raucous parties at night, only the quiet shuffling and snorting of horses, the rustle of hay, and the call of owls out beyond the skylights.

He’d never lived in the country. He’d never had a place that felt like his own.

Would Reese come see him here? Would he sleep over?

Thoughts of Reese reminded him that he needed to change. He dumped his bag on the bare mattress and pulled out the gear he’d ordered online: clinging black knee-patch breeches and casual knee-high field boots, with laces all up the front, and rugged soles. He had a minor panic attack, once he’d unpacked them. It had been a while since he’d dressed properly for riding; nothing could have been farther from traditional biker dress.

Heart hammering stupidly, he sat down on the edge of the bed to strip off his harness boots and jeans.

A full-length mirror in a wooden frame sat propped against one wall, and when he’d finished lacing his new boots, he went to peer at himself in it.

He’d always been a talented chameleon. Change his clothes, his hair, his stance, his facial expression, and he could be anyone to anyone. Could be a tweaker, or a society darling. He and Fox had that in common.

But the man staring back at him from the mirror – though lean, and elegant, and, frankly, gorgeous in the tight black pants and calf-hugging boots, his hair tousled from his bike helmet – didn’t wear a chameleon mask. The eyes staring back at him were wide, and uncertain, the face a little pale, and tight with nerves.

Was that what the real him looked like? Not Ten, not Benjamin Ruse or any one of his other undercover aliases, but Tennyson Fox?

He scowled at himself and turned away, just as the growl of Harley tailpipes swelled and then cut off. He ruthlessly shoved down the jitters that rose in his stomach, and hurried down the stairs.

Emmie was down the aisle, at the cross-ties; he could hear her talking to someone, probably George, her head groom. It meant that Tenny stood alone at the foot of the stairs, his view unfettered, as Reese stepped into the shade of the barn aisle, raking a hand absently through his messy hair. It hung down to his shoulders, now, blond gone platinum from the sun, a baby-fine texture that allowed him to pick tangles free with his fingers. It flared like metal, in the instant just before he stepped inside, and his gaze was fixed on something down the aisle, so Tenny had a moment to admire, and to ache.

He never dressed well, but the plain black shirt, and battered jacket suited him. His jeans hung off narrow hipbones, the cuffs tucked down deep into the combat boots he always wore, halfway up his calves and nearly as tall as Tenny’s new riding boots.

His head turned, and his eyes, with the open, sunny barn doors as backdrop, glowed a clear, guileless blue. The ache in Tenny’s chest intensified.

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